Ow
“Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.”
“That does not hurt, Yali. I know it doesn’t.”
“Ow. Hurt! Ow. Hurt!”
“Yali, stop that.”
It was a mid-Sunday afternoon. And an unusual one. I could probably count the number of times on both hands in the past twelve years that we’ve come home after church instead of to the Big House. But because Puck’s pal two houses down the road had a birthday party at three o’clock, we opted to return after services.
Anyway, it was just Yali and myself in the kitchen where I’d plunked him down for a haircut. And apparently he just felt like saying the word “Ow!” over and over and over again. Followed by little giggles where the clippers tickled his neck.
Earlier that day, I’d felt my own light sense of “ow” when I woke up that morning. The face that greeted me in the mirror was several shades more cherry than I envisioned when going to bed last night. All that air show sun. Crispy critter. Carrie-Bri didn’t have it any better. And Francis was by far the worst. Completely pink. Maybe he got some heat blast from all those jets, standing on the static line. Looked like he’d been dipped in sunburn.
It was another cool afternoon in May. Green. Sun. Very still. Unlike May. Rain was coming. Just in time for the poor bedraggled Cardinals to return to St. Louis for another home stand. Things have certainly looked prettier in recent years…
Oxbear took his turn in the hot seat next around four-thirty. I always sense a great deal of power behind the scissors when it comes time to hack down that beard. And possibly the occasional smallest indication of trepidation from the man in question. I may not be trained in the art – which I’m sure has something to do with it – but with the level of admiration this man’s co-workers shower down upon him for his ability to grow thick facial hair… I sometimes feel like I’m trimming an invaluable museum piece.
Puck hurried back from the party sometime after it ended for his own hair cut. It’s usually best to get them all out of the way at the same time. Leaves a haystack of black, brown, and blonde on the linoleum for Crackers to play with until I sweep up. Weirdo.
Meanwhile, according to the bathroom mirror, I still resembled a lobster. I won’t be fooled by 48 degrees on a cloudy morning again.